


take two

by dogbuns



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Fanart, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hospitals, Minor Character Death, Survivor Guilt, Unwound Future Spoilers, minor spoilers for all the prequels, one big emotionally constipated family, puzzles at the most inappropriate times, somewhat romantic. i love layclaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-05-28 23:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15060167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogbuns/pseuds/dogbuns
Summary: The flat looked nice enough. He didn’t doubt he'd be comfortable here. But it would never feel like home.(or, an au where claire lives, and clive is taken in by the laytons.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i meant this to be a oneshot but it got too long lmao
> 
> ill try to update as fast as i can but im currently still playing the games for the first time so no promises
> 
> this, like all my shit, is unedited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important slight au detail is that constance and clive are related here, otherwise not much is changed

He didn’t hadn’t minded the explosion, at first.

No, when Clive made his way home from school that day, his head was filled with nothing but excitement. He'd made new friends at school earlier, and they’d spent the afternoon running through small stores and alleyways. He’d even used the bit of the money his parents gave him to buy a new hat. Clive was all too excited to show them.

So excited that when a rumble shook the earth beneath him, he merely brushed it off. It was probably nothing, he mused, because when you’re twelve, seemingly nothing could ruin a good day.

Except, maybe, the stench of smoke that had begun to fill the air.

Clive only froze for a second before bolting down the street. _Everything is fine_ , he thought, he hoped. He turned one corner, then another, going as fast as his small feet could carry him.

 _They’re fine_ , he insisted, even as he landed on his block, with smoke so thick his eyes began to water. _They’re fine, they’re fine._ There was a large fire burning from the building next to his- he never did remember its name, though it hardly mattered now as he watched it crumble further, chunks of debris falling onto the collapsed heap of rubble he used to call home.

_They have to be fine._

Tears stung at his eyes as he charged forward, smoke and heat be damned, ready to throw himself into the fiery mess. He'd almost made it, but before he could reach the sidewalk, a strong pair of arms lifted him up. Clive screamed in protest as he was whisked away far from the complex, his cries battling with the sirens that wailed in the distance. But no matter how much he kicked and screamed, the stranger didn’t let him down until they were a good distance from the wreckage.

“Let me go!” he yelled. “My parents are still in there! I have to go! I-”

He was cut off by a firm hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him hard. Clive finally looked up to see the stranger who stood in his way. He'd laugh, if the situation wasn’t so bleak.

The man was dressed almost comically, a large black coat draped over a bright red suit. A tall top hat was perched on his head. Though as funny Clive thought he looked, the man fixed him with a stern expression.

“You can’t go in there,” the man told him. “You’ll die too!”

Clive tried to shake him off, but his grip was firm. “I don’t c-care! I have to save them-!”

“You _can’t!_ ”

The boy blinked. The strange hatted man began to shake, and Clive noticed there were tears in his eyes as well.

“Listen to me,” the stranger continued, “I know how you feel. But it’s too dangerous. Believe me when I say that right now, the best thing we can do is _stay put.”_

The man held him closer; to keep Clive from running or for his own comfort, it was hard to tell. Clive buried his face in the black coat, cries wracking his body.

When Clive didn’t seem to try and run anymore, the man loosened his hold, moving one of his hands to his coat pockets, going over something inside, though he never removed it. Police and firemen swarmed the area while Clive and the stranger sat on the sidewalk for what felt like hours.

When the fire had died down and ambulances sped away, an officer approached the duo. The man straightened himself and tried to shake the officer’s hand, though tears still continued to slide down his cheeks.

“Well, what’re you folks sittin’ out here for?” the policeman asked, despite the answer being glaringly obvious. “Are you lookin’ for anyone that might’ve been in that mess?”

“Claire Foley!” the man blurted out. “I- I mean yes. My… girlfriend. She worked in the lab. Her- Her name is Claire Foley. Is she- Have you heard anything-”

The officer held up his hand. “Slow down, buddy.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket and flipped through it. “Foley, Foley… Ah!”

“What is it?” The top hatted man seemed ready to jump at him. His hand rummaged around in his pocket again.

“Miss Foley had been admitted to the general hospital, three blocks down. She survived, but her injuries- sir!”

The officer was cut off as the man gave a quick tip of his hat to him, then to Clive, and bolted away. The thing he held in his pocket tumbled to the ground, forgotten as he made a mad dash down the road. Clive picked the little box up in his daze, sticking it in his own pocket for later.

The policeman rubbed at his forehead. “Well, alright then. And what about you?” He bent down to Clive’s eye level. “Was that man your father?”

Clive shook his head. The officer’s eyebrows shot up.

“Well, did you know anyone who lived around there?” He pointed at Clive’s apartment complex, which now looked more like a smoking trash heap than a building. The boy’s mouth went dry.

“My… My parents.” he managed.

“Parents, huh..” The officer shifted his gaze. “Say, what’s your name, kid?”

“Clive. Clive Dove.”

“Dove… Dove...” The officer flipped through his notepad again, falling silent. His brows furrowed. He returned the notepad to his pocket and stood up, offering a hand to the boy. “Alright, kid, how 'bout you come with me for a sec, okay?”

Clive didn’t think he had a say in the matter.

* * *

 

The first thing Claire felt was pain.

It flared from all over her body, most prominently from the side of her head. She tried to open her eyes, but found that making any movement was difficult. All she could manage was a little wiggle of her fingers.

 _It’s a start_ , she told herself. She tried to move her hands again, and found that she could move her arm, at least a bit. Next she tried her legs, but froze in terror when she realized she couldn’t _feel_ them.

 _What kind of nightmare is this_ ? she thought. Nightmare, Nightmare… Wait. _What am I waking up from?_

Claire forced her eyes open with a loud groan, but quickly shut them again when white light flooded her vision, hands gripping at the bedsheets. _Why am I in a bed?_

“Claire!?”

Her eyes shot open again, startled by the sudden noise. Her panic subsided a bit when she realized who was with her. When her vision cleared, she saw her sweetheart next to her, worry lacing his features.

“Claire, can you hear me?”

“Hersh…” Her mouth was dry, but forced herself to speak. “Hershel!”

Hershel’s shoulders began to shake as he gingerly took her hand in his. She could see that he was crying. Guilt began to cloud over her confusion.

“Y-You’re awake,” he sniffled. “You’re actually…”

“Of course I am, silly.” Claire tried to give him a reassuring smile. “We still… have to go to dinner together, remember?”

Hershel only sobbed harder, and Claire was afraid she’d said something wrong. “Hershel?” she prodded.

“They said… The doctors. Th-They said, with your injuries, you m-might not…” he stuttered. “They said y-you might not make it.”

The scientist frowned. She tried to sit up, but pain flared through her body again.

“Claire!” Hershel stood up in a panic, gently holding her down. “Don’t overexert yourself, your injuries-”

“Hershel, what happened!?” Claire's eyes darted around the room. Everything was a starchy white, the smell of disinfectant reeking in the air. Her heart pounded as she found herself hooked up to a few machines.

Her boyfriend’s expression softened again, his eyes starting to glaze over. “Your laboratory…” he said, almost in a whisper.

All at once, the fight drained out from Claire’s body. “Hershel?” she asked again.

“You said you were going to perform an important experiment at the laboratory, yesterday. You l-left, then you got hurt. I let you go. I shouldn't have let you go.”

Talking about it clearly pained him. He wasn’t even speaking as clearly as he usually did. But Claire needed answers, so she pressed further.

“What happened after I left?”

Hershel stiffened, hesitant to speak. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, like he didn’t intend to continue.

“Please,” Claire pleaded. “I need to know.”

The professor looked away. “Your colleague explained things a bit, before h-he left for the night.” Claire figured he was talking about Dimitri. “You were testing a time machine, but the calculations were off. He- He said you were the test subject, but the machine-” Hershel was talking too fast now- “It _exploded_ , you were still inside, they’d found you in the rubble but you weren’t _moving_ and... and…!”

Claire gave his hand a squeeze, cutting him off. Yes, she remembered now- hearing the machine whirr around her, everything growing too loud, too bright, too _hot_ all at once then-

She blinked hard, pushing the memory from her mind. It hurt to think about it, so she’d focused her gaze on Hershel again. His eyes were shut tight now, breath shaky and uneven. Claire squeezed his hand once more.

“Hey…” she said. “Hershel, look at me.”

“I shouldn’t have let you go…” he sobbed.

“It’s not your fault.”

Hershel shook his head. “I shouldn’t have let you go,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have let…”

Claire's frown deepened. She’d seen the man babble like this before, shaking in his sleep, sobbing from nightmares he didn’t think she’d heard. Whenever she tried to approach the topic, he’d shut himself off from everyone.

She’d always meant to find out what was troubling her boyfriend so much. It hurt her to see him like this, more than anything. Now wasn’t the time, though, so she settled for brushing her bandaged fingers over his.

“Hershel,” Claire said, tugging at his hand to get his attention. Hershel finally looked back up at her, eyes watery. “It’s not your fault. I’m alive, okay? I’m here.” She offered him a smile.

Hershel nodded, pressing her hand to his face. Claire rubbed his cheek with her thumb. “I’m here,” she repeated, both to reassure herself and her boyfriend.

The professor made a noise that sounded like both a choked laugh and a sob. “Forgive me,” he said, his frown growing deeper. “I’m making a fuss while you’re the one in a hospital bed.”

Claire shushed him. “Don’t apologize for being upset, Hershel.” Her hand playfully flicked at the brim of his top hat. _I can’t believe he’s still wearing it._

He gave her a dry laugh. “You still won’t let me apologize for anything, will you?”

Claire’s heart fluttered at the small smile that creeped onto Hershel’s face. “Actually, you’re wrong,” she teased. The professor tilted his head. “I believe you’ve forgotten to alert the nurse that I’ve woken up. I’m a bit parched, you know.”

Hershel flushed and quickly stood from his chair. “I- That’s right, I’m-” he stammered. Claire giggled. “I’m terribly sorry! Wait right here- although you don’t really have a choice, do you-”

“Hershel,” she laughed. It was always adorable, getting him flustered like this. “The nurse?”

“Right!” He tipped his hat. “I’ll be right back, don’t worry!” Hershel rushed out of the room, leaving Claire to lie alone with her thoughts.

Now that her boyfriend had left, it was harder to distract herself from the pain that ached through her body. She shut her eyes again, trying to force the memories of the explosion out of her mind. Hershel would be back soon enough. She didn’t need to start panicking before then.

Claire tried to make herself focus on the memory of Hershel's cheeks beneath her hands. She'll be strong, for him.

“I’m here,” she repeated, now just for herself. “I’m okay. We’ll be okay.”

* * *

 

Hershel was exhausted by the time he'd made it to the hospital’s cafeteria. The doctors had instructed him to give Claire space while they ran a few tests, so he figured he’d occupy his time during the wait.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since Claire had been admitted the day before. He was mind was too consumed by dread to notice that it was now early morning and he hadn’t so much as moved from the chair at her bedside.

Perhaps she’d make fun of him being a worrywart again later, but it didn't matter now, she was still _here._ He doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to lose someone all over again…

“Sir?”

Hershel was quickly shaken out of his thoughts. The lunchlady was shooting him a bemused expression. “You’re holding up the line, sir.”

The professor flushed, quickly thanking the woman and taking his meal away. Thank goodness nobody he knew was here right now. With his new profession, he couldn’t afford to let anyone see him so off his game.

He scanned the cafeteria, briefly considering sitting at an empty table- he couldn’t handle much social interaction, for now- when his eyes landed on a familiar blue cap. Right, he’d left that poor boy with the police officer. Did that mean his parents made it to the hospital, as well?

Hershel gingerly set his tray down next to where the boy sat, silently asking for permission. He didn’t look back up at him, but the man took his seat anyway.

“Forgive my rudeness,” the professor said, “I wasn’t able to properly introduce myself, yesterday.” He extended his hand. “My name is Professor Hershel Layton.”

The boy didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to glare holes into the table, fiddling with something in his pocket. Hershel slowly lowered his hand.

“The circumstances of our meeting were rather, er, unfortunate,” he continued. “But I’m glad to see that you’re alright.”

The boy raised an eyebrow at him. Hershel coughed. “Right, a hospital isn’t the best place to meet, either,” he said. “I apologize. I thought you might appreciate some company, given the circumstances.”

The child looked like he was about to protest when a faint gurgle cut through the silence. He glared at his stomach, as if making the noise had betrayed him.

“Oh dear,” Hershel said. “My boy, have you had your breakfast yet?” The boy slowly shook his head. Layton tutted. “Now that just won’t do. Here,” He slid his sandwich across the table. “You can take mine.”

“Then what will you eat?” Well, at least he was talking.

“I can always buy another. It’s no problem.” He hoped his smile was reassuring. The boy looked at him for a second before attacking his meal.

Hershel chuckled, then excused himself to go purchase another two sandwiches. The boy didn’t seem to have money to buy meals for himself right now. The professor frowned, wondering what state the child’s parents must be in.

By the time he'd returned to their table, the boy was picking at the remains on his plate. Hershel slid over the extra sandwich and a carton of juice. He was rewarded with a questioning look.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hershel assured him. “You may save it for later, if you’d like…”

The boy straightened a bit, then gingerly offered his hand. “Clive. Clive Dove,” he said.

“Well, you may save it for later then, Clive.” Hershel smiled and took his hand. “It’s my pleasure to meet you. Me and my girlfriend are staying over at room 143. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Clive slowly nodded and returned to his meal. The boy looked exhausted, though Hershel guessed he’d looked pretty haggard himself. “My parents are in room 114. The doctors said I shouldn’t stay in there too long.”

Hershel raised an eyebrow. “I don’t mean to pry, but why shouldn’t you..?”

Clive frowned. “They said a kid like me shouldn’t have to see my parents like that.” He didn’t elaborate, but Hershel could guess what he meant. “Especially because they might not wake up.”

Hershel furrowed his brows. It must be awful for Clive to deal with this, but what was he doing here alone?

“Don’t you have any relatives you could stay with?” the professor asked. Clive shook his head.

“My grandmother passed away last year. I'm not related to anyone else in the city.”

Hershel didn’t know what to say. He returned to his own meal. “Well, as I said, me and Claire are staying down the hall, should you need anything. I doubt we’ll be leaving any time soon.” Clive nodded, but didn’t respond. Hershel couldn’t blame him. He turned back to his tray, forcing himself to keep his thoughts light. Perhaps he could use a distraction...

A few minutes passed in silence before Clive finally spoke up again. “Mr. Layton,” he said. “Why haven’t you touched your meal?”

“Hm? Oh,” Hershel looked up from his tray. “You see, this sandwich is shaped rather oddly, wouldn’t you say? It reminded me of a puzzle.”

Clive shot him a look. “You’re an odd man, Mr. Layton.”

Hershel chucked. “Yes, so I’ve been told.” He slid his plate over to the boy. “Here, I’m a bit stumped. Why don’t you give it a try? See if you can divide this into seven equally shaped parts.”

Clive gave him another questioning look, but obliged anyway. Only a minute passed before he picked up a toothpick and began tracing lines over the bread. “How about this?”

“Excellent work, my boy!” Hershel’s eyes lit up. “You’re rather talented with puzzles, aren’t you?” Clive chucked as well, and Hershel was relieved to see a smile on the boy’s face.

The moment was broken when a nurse approached Hershel, tapping him on the shoulder. “The doctors said you may see Ms. Foley again,” he said.

The professor nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He tipped his hat to the nurse, then to Clive. “Forgive me for leaving you so suddenly, but I wouldn’t want to leave her alone. Will you be alright, Clive?”

The boy nodded. Hershel picked up his sandwich and stood up. “Remember, we’re just down the hall from you if you need anything. Room 143.” Clive gave him a timid smile as he made his way out the door.

Claire was sitting up in bed when he entered the room. Her face looked troubled, but she smiled as Hershel took his seat next to her, holding her hand. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

“Like I’ve been in a time machine explosion,” she grumbled. “Can you believe they won’t let me out for another two weeks?”

“It’ll fly by before you know it, dear.” Claire grumbled again. “I’ll call your colleagues to visit, if you’d like.”

The scientist’s eyes lit up at that. “Oh, do let Dimitri know that I’m alright, would you? The poor man must be worried sick.” Hershel smiled. It always reassured him to know she had good friends at work.

“I believe he may be busy with the mess with the lab, but I’ll let him know.”

“Mess?” Claire asked. Hershel stiffened. “Hershel,” she spoke slowly. “What happened to the lab?”

Hershel tried to look away, but Claire gripped his hand harder. “Tell me,” she insisted, her big brown eyes looking pleadingly into his. He hesitated, knowing Claire didn't need the stress, but he’d never been good at saying no to her.

“Your entire laboratory had collapsed,” he conceded. “It was a miracle you’d survived, with all that damage.” Then there were the apartments taken as collateral damage, but she didn’t need to know that. Not right now.

Still, tears began to flood Claire’s eyes. Hershel panicked, taking both her hands in his. “Don’t cry,” he hushed her. “You’re alright.”

“But what if someone else got hurt!” she cried. Hershel winced, and Claire noticed. “Oh, god, Hershel, did…”

He shushed her again. “It’s alright, dear. It's not your fault.”

“How many people-!”

“You don’t need to-”

“For God’s sake Hershel, don’t keep things from me!” She glared at him. Hershel felt his heart plummet, and he stared down at his hands. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he could understand her frustration.

Claire’s face softened when she saw tears in Hershel’s eyes as well. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, I just...”

“It’s alright,” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to upset you any more.”

“I’m more upset with being kept in the dark, Hersh,” she said. He gripped her hands tighter.

“I understand,” he said. “How about this. Once you’re cleared from here, I’ll look into it with you.”

Claire sighed, leaning back into the bed. “I think I can live with that.”

Hershel smiled. “Every puzzle has an answer.” She gave him a smile back, her eyelids beginning to droop. “Now, you should rest. All those tests must have been tiring.”

“But I want to stay with you,” Claire protested.

“I’ll be here when you wake up. Don’t worry.” Hershel leaned over and gave her a light peck on the lips. “I’m not leaving your side again.”

* * *

 

The next two weeks did fly by, as Hershel said. Claire was exhausted from the all the physical therapy they had her do, and spent most of the time asleep. Hershel paid no mind. He stayed at her bedside, keeping her entertained with puzzles and his studies. Claire had chastised him for taking the entire semester off, but he’d insisted that this was far more important.

Dimitri often passed by at night after work, but he could never stay very long, with all the cleaning up he’d had to deal with. Oddly enough, they’d heard nothing from Hawkes, but the three decided to deal with that once Claire was recovered enough to leave.

Clive visited them once a day, though he didn’t speak much at all, aside from Hershel asking if he'd like to eat or handing him the occasional puzzle. The couple couldn’t blame him.

Though on their last day, as Claire and Hershel were preparing to leave, Clive timidly entered their room, and finally gave them an update on his parent’s situation.

“They’re not going to wake up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry for fucking with the timeline and also killing off constance dove early
> 
> and also everyone being ooc maybe probably
> 
> clive and constance are related cause uh i needed a last name i guess
> 
> i love layclaire and i think clive is neato welcome to self indulgence island


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took longer than i thought it would  
> (unedited, again)
> 
> this chapter is really weirdly paced apologies in advance im a sleepy bastard

Clive shifted in the back of the automobile, clearly unaccustomed to the leathery seat he’d found himself in. It was ridiculous, really- this tiny bright red thing with a roof raised just high enough to brush the tip of a man’s tall hat. He’d never been in many cars before; their family used to get by on public transportation. Despite that, he’d found the “Laytonmobile” as tasteless as its name.

The two adults in the front seat seemed to have no qualms about it, however. The woman- Ms. Foley- had only laughed as Mr. Layton had lifted her from her wheelchair and into the passenger seat, making quips about how she'd oh so missed this ridiculous looking thing, but there was no malice in her tone.

Mr. Layton tried to ease Clive’s worries best he could. Done the paperwork where Clive couldn’t see, argued with the hospital staff and police when he thought Clive couldn’t hear. It was fruitless, however. The boy knew he had no nearby relatives, his parents had told him as much. Constance Dove had been listed in their will long ago, but that chance, like everything, had slipped from his fingers.

Ms. Foley assured him, as they packed up their belongings from the hospital, that they were all going to be alright. But her tone wavered, and from the look in her eyes she knew that the twelve year old didn’t believe her.

The city rolled past them as they made their way through the smaller streets of London, quiet and beautiful in the early morning light. The couple tried to engage Clive in conversation, about his schooling, about the nice flat they’d stay in together, how they’d provide for him best they could, given the circumstances. Despite the anxiousness in their tones, they genuinely seemed as if they wanted to help him. To give him the best possible life from here on out.

Clive hated it. He already _had_ the best possible life, and it had been ripped from his hands.

The car stopped in a quieter part of town, far away from all the bustling streets Clive was accustomed to. Mr. Layton lifted his girlfriend out into the wheelchair, careful to avoid the numerous bandages around her body, then walked around to the car’s side and gently opened Clive’s door for him.

“I hope you’ll find the place to your liking, my boy.” Mr. Layton said, wheeling Ms. Foley to the door.

Clive stood a few feet from the entryway. “I’m _not_ your boy.”

The professor cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” His hands fumbled as he fished for the keys. “Regardless, do make yourself at home.” The couple moved inside, leaving the door open for Clive to follow. He hesitated, carrying out a small act of  defiance standing by the door, but eventually the chilly morning air had won over his motive to appear upset.

The flat was bigger than his parent’s apartment in the heart of the city. It looked well lived-in, books lining the shelves and photographs on the mantles. Occasionally he’d find an odd rock or such put on display high up on a shelf. Odd. Mr. Layton mentioned being a professor of some sorts a week ago, but he'd hardly paid attention to anything in the hospital, too focused on  hoping his parents would come out alright. A useless effort, apparently.

The flat looked nice enough. He didn’t doubt he'd be comfortable here. But it would never feel like home.

Clive followed the sounds of soft clinks down the hallway and found the couple in a cozy looking sitting room. Mr. Layton was setting down a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Shouldn’t we be moving our things from the car?” Clive asked.

“I thought it would be best to settle down first,” Layton said. “And what better way to do so than with a cup of tea?” He carried a cup over to Ms. Foley, who had been quiet since they’d gone inside. She gave murmured her thanks, eyes lost in thought.

Clive squinted. The couple just got odder the more he got to know them. Next thing he knew, Mr. Layton would probably think the tea-

“Reminds me of a puzzle…” The professor said, tilting his cup. Clive groaned, but Ms. Foley’s head suddenly snapped up in attention. The boy rolled his eyes as she pulled a notebook from the side of the table and began to frantically scribble equations down.

Clive cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation away from another one of Layton’s famous puzzles. It was a welcome distraction at the hospital, and the boy enjoyed them then, but there were more pressing matters at hand. “So…”

Layton seemed to sense his restlessness and set his cup down. “We have a guest room upstairs that you could occupy. Claire’s colleague will be stopping by for lunch to discuss some important matters, but we can go and purchase some clothes for you, this afternoon.”

Right. His belongings had been lost in the accident. He’d been getting by with the hospital lending him things during his stay.

“And of course, we’d be more than happy to cover your schooling for you, any time you should wish to return.” Clive felt a little bad at that. The man was already offering him so much. Still, he had no ways of claiming his inheritance until he was eighteen. Perhaps he could pay them back then. The couple _did_ look like they were getting by just fine...

“How could you afford such a large flat?” the boy blurted out, before he could stop himself. “I mean, my parents were both working but our complex was much smaller than this, and…”

Mr. Layton chuckled at his curiosity. “I _had_ been working as a teaching assistant at the university while finishing my studies. Claire had earned government compensation for her work at the lab.” His gaze moved lovingly to his girlfriend, who was still earnestly jotting down equations for the tea puzzle. (Honestly, the solution didn’t need to be so complicated; Clive had solved it minutes ago, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her.)

“I see,” Clive said. “I thought you might’ve been splitting with some flatmates.”

“We shared this space back in our early days at university, but Brenda and Clark got married some time ago and moved to a smaller town,” Ms. Foley piped up, tapping her pencil against her chin. She lifted her notes for the professor to see. “Did I get it right?”

“I’m afraid the answer doesn’t include any _decimal points_ , dear,” Mr. Layton chuckled. The scientist huffed, reclining in her wheelchair a bit before flipping to a fresh page of her notebook.

 _The answer is zero,_ Clive thought. _I wonder why he isn’t just giving her the solution. Maybe they’re bonding, in their own strange way?_

“It's been just us two for quite a while,” Mr. Layton said, pouring himself another cup. His hand trembled slightly.

Clive furrowed his brow. “My parents always said it wasn’t right for couples to live together before they’re married.” Layton spat out his drink at that, coughing and hacking. His face had turned bright red. Clive couldn’t tell if it was from the choking or embarrassment. The man always froze up when approached about romance.

And that was another thing. Clive reached into his pocket, his fingers tracing over a box he’d picked up those weeks ago. Mr. Layton probably thought he’d lost it in the commotion. It didn’t make sense to still hold onto it now; he’d really been holding on because it reminded Clive of his mother. She’d always adored jewelry. The ring inside the soft velvet box reminded him of the one his mother never took off, a simple gold band that shone a little red in the light.

Perhaps he could bring it up sometime, when Mr. Layton wasn’t busy coughing up his tea.

Soon after they’d set their tea aside and brought Clive’s knapsack to the guest room, there was a sharp knock on the door. The couple shared a nervous glance before Mr. Layton straightened his tophat and made his way to the entrance.

A tall, disheveled man walked in through the door and joined everyone in the parlor. Clive guessed that he was a scientist as well, judging by the lab coat he’d hung up on the rack, but his face resembled something of a madman. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his hair was frazzled, as if he had been running his hands through it. Still, his demeanor was very polite, if tired. He gave Mr. Layton a firm handshake then went to press a light kiss to Ms. Foley’s hand.

“My name is Dimitri. Dimitri Allen,” he said, shaking Clive’s hand. It was rough and clammy. “I’m sorry to ask this of you, but would you mind waiting back in your room for a bit? I’m afraid what we’re about to discuss is highly confidential.”

Clive gave him a look, but obliged anyway. Mr. Allen didn’t look like the type of man he could argue with. However, his curiosity got the better of him, and there wasn’t anything he could busy himself with, so he hid behind a desk in the nearby hallway to listen in.

“Let’s get straight to the point, Dimitri,” Ms. Foley piped up. Her voice had sounded more serious than Clive had ever heard. “I want to know all the details. I need to know what _happened._ ”

There was a pause. “Hershel hasn’t told you?” Clive’s brow furrowed. What were they discussing? Her injuries?

“The doctors said not to give her any unnecessary stress!”

“Not knowing was stressful enough, mind you.”

“I’m, sorry, love-”

Mr. Allen cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much to tell you, anyway.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Another pause, longer this time. “A lot of details are being hidden from me. I don't know the exact calculations that have gone wrong. The insurance is all gone. There’s zero press coverage. All the evidence from the time machine has been well hidden. Hawks, damn him, he’s untraceable. Ran away with the funding.”

There was a collective gasp from the couple. Ms. Foley’s voice quivered as she spoke, “And what about the casualties? What’s to happen of them?”

The air was thick with tension. “I don’t know.”

There was an angry grunt from Mr. Layton. Ms. Foley sobbed, “Good grief, this is all my fault..!”

The two men were quick to jump on her statement. “It was _not_ , love-” “It was Bill’s fault-”

“But I agreed to do the experiment!”

“And you’ve more than already paid the price! You’re a victim of this as well!”

“But I _survived_ it! What about all the people in the apartment complex? How many people did I _kill_ -”

Clive let out a gasp, and before he knew it, he’d knocked something over from the desk he was hiding behind. The adults’ conversation fell silent. Tears stung at the boy’s eyes as he ran into the parlor, fists clenched and fury lacing his features. The two men stared at him in shock. Ms. Foley’s hands covered her mouth, trembling. No one dared say a word.

There were a million words Clive wanted to scream. Furious thoughts raced through his head. _What do you mean it was your fault you did an experiment you mean_ you _destroyed the apartments you killed my parents you did this now I’m living with you I hate you I don’t understand how could you do this why did this happen how could you let this happen how could you kill them-_

None of them were voiced out. Hands balled into fists and tears finally spilling down his cheeks, Clive dashed out the front door.

He didn’t really have anywhere to go. Anger clouded his thoughts, and the only coherent idea that came to him was to _run_ , _run, get away from here get away from all of them I want to leave I want to go home._

His feet didn’t bring him home, however, and soon enough he found himself standing in front of an old clock shop. He tried knocking at the door, but it seemed neither Spring nor Cogg were in. They were the only people his family knew in the city, and now it seems even they’d left him.

Clive sank to his knees, staring up at the gaudy building in front of him. Faint ticking noises echoed from inside. Hadn’t Mr. Allen mentioned the explosion was due to a _time_ machine? How ironic. He felt bile rise up at the back of his throat.

He doesn’t know how much time he’d spent curled up in front of the clock shop, sobbing and pounding his fists at the door. It could have been minutes or hours, but it didn’t matter to him anymore. Nothing seemed to matter.

Footsteps approached from behind, and a large hand laid on his shoulder. Clive straightened up and turned around. Mr. Layton was kneeling behind him, a serious but melancholy look in his eyes.

“H-How did you find me?” Clive’s voice was raw and laced with venom.

“It wasn’t very hard to solve. Spring and Cogg were employed by your grandmother, after all. When I saw you weren’t at the apartments, I came here.”

The boy supposed that made sense. Still, the professor was the last person he wanted to see right now. “What do you _want_?”

Mr. Layton adjusted his already straightened hat. Clive guessed it was a nervous tic. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Why are _you_ apologizing? _Miss Foley_ conducted the experiment, correct?”

The professor’s face hardened, and Clive’s anger nearly dissipated. Perhaps he went too far?

“I assure you, it was _not_ Claire’s fault. What happened then was a matter beyond our control.”

He supposed that made sense, but it didn’t stop his feelings of hatred from rising up at the thought of the couple. They were still involved. They still shared the blame.

(Clive wasn’t home when it happened. Clive couldn’t save them. He needed someone, _anyone_ to blame.)

The boy felt something jostle in his pocket as he turned to fully face the man. Right. The ring was still there. He's never returning it now, he decided.

“You dodged my question. What are you here for?”

Mr. Layton’s face softened, and he had trouble looking the boy in the eye. “I came to apologize for not looking after you better.”

Clive raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“The accident had been hard on everyone, and I failed to consider how deeply it must have affected you. Keeping things from you and Claire was apparently the wrong way to go about all this.” The professor gave a nervous chuckle. “I truly apologize.”

“Apologies won’t bring my family back.”

Layton straightened his hat again. “That is true. But I assure you, I will do everything in my power to make sure justice is served.”

Justice, huh? Clive _did_ like the sound of that. “And how are you supposed to do _that?_ ”

“Every puzzle has an answer.” Determination glimmered in the man’s eyes. “It seems it’s time to take matters into my own hands.”

* * *

 

_They were so close to their goal now. Several floors of being chased by boulders and mummies were all about to be worth it in the blink of an eye._

_To be honest, Hershel didn’t care much for the treasure, or the glory. He’d tagged along to make sure his friend would stay safe, and soon he’d be rewarded by the triumphant look in Randall’s eyes. He’d go through a_ thousand _floors of Akbadain for that smile._

_When he turned around, however, Randall was nowhere to be found. Instead there was another redhead standing in his place, a look of mischief in her eyes. Hershel’s breath hitched. Claire was as beautiful as ever._

_Then everything happened all at once._

_Before he knew what was happening, Claire was dangling over the edge of a gaping ravine, supported only by Hershel’s scrawny hand. The mask hung from her other hand, threatening to slip from the scientist's fingers._

_“Give me your other hand!” he shrieked, but it was no use._

_“I’m sorry, Hershel,” she said, her grasp weakening._

_“No… No!”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Hershel desperately lunged for her hand, nearly hurtling over the edge himself, but it was no use. He was helpless as he watched Claire be swallowed by the inky blackness below._

“No!!”

And suddenly he was back in the bedroom of his flat, frantically grasping at the bedsheets. A soft hand sympathetically brushed at his bangs.

“Hershel?” Claire was sitting up next to him, heavy rings under her eyes. She looked like she’d been crying as well.

Hershel didn’t respond, panting and staring at her as if she’d disappear any second. Claire gingerly laid her hand on his, loosening his death-grip on the sheets. The physical touch calmed him a bit. His breathing began to even out as he clamped his eyes shut. “I-I’m terribly sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t be,” she said, giving him a light kiss on the nose and settling back under the covers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hershel shook his head. To this day he hadn’t told her much about Stansbury, or the reason he'd moved to London at all. She never prodded him, bless her soul, though he felt terribly guilty for keeping it to himself. He planned to  _propose_ for goodness' sake, and yet he still couldn’t seem to bare himself to her. The crushing guilt still weighed down on his shoulders, catching the words in his throat.

Claire brushed her hand over his cheek, letting out a tired sigh. Hershel gave her a once-over and guessed she hadn’t slept at all that night. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she must have been feeling that day, what with Dimitri delivering the death count and Clive refusing to even breathe in her direction.

He winced. Claire shouldn’t have to be the one comforting him, not again, not now.

The man was never good at initiating physical affection, but just this once, he pushed away the butterflies in his stomach and leaned over to press his lips to Claire’s. She reciprocated the kiss softly, wearily.

When they broke apart, her spirits seemed to have been lifted, but the smile she wore seemed forced. “What brought that on?”

Her hand slipped into Hershel's. A sharp pang resonated through his chest as he recalled the nightmare, the feeling of her hand slipping from his, _oh god she’s falling you let her go you let someone die_ again. He tried his best to push the thought aside. “Nothing, I suppose. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Claire murmured back. She gripped his hand tighter, resting her head under his chin. She buried her face into his shirt. “And I’m here, Hershel.”

“I know.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “So am I," he whispered, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

Hershel rose earlier than Claire later that morning. She was worn out from staying up all night. He smiled, brushing her curls away from her eyes and giving her a light peck on the cheek. He got a loud snore in response. Quietly, he slipped himself out from under the covers and made his way to Clive’s room. The door was locked, although the man could make out the sound of snoring coming from inside.

The professor thought about going back to sleep as well. The sun had barely begun to peek out from the horizon. But there was still a chance for the nightmares to return, and he’d rather risk a sluggish day than to face his demons twice in one night, so he busied himself with preparing breakfast.

Eggs and toast seemed easy enough. He’d add some meat into the mix if he was more skilled in the kitchen, but most of his attempts that didn’t involve tea turned out disastrous. If Claire wasn’t offering to cook, Hershel preferred to eat at a nearby cafe, lest he burn down his kitchen for the umpteenth time.

Breakfast ready and tea steeped, he made his way back upstairs, leaving a tray by Clive’s door and another by Claire’s bedside. Hershel moved to wake her, but she looked so peaceful, curly auburn locks framing her delicate round face. She seemed to glow in the faint sunlight. The sight made Hershel’s heart flutter.

But now he still had spare time on his hands. He’d stop by the library to begin his research later, when the city was alive and the stores were open, but it seemed all of London was still groggily rising. Clive had agreed to help him, but there was nothing he could ask the boy to do without anything on hand.

Hershel decided to busy himself with looking for his blasted ring again. _How did I possibly lose it?_ he thought, rifling through his coats once more. That ring was passed down to him from his Ma. He would’ve proposed to Claire that night- _if he wasn’t so afraid- if she hadn’t left-_ but his chance had slipped by him, and now he'd have to find the box again before he could make another attempt.

(At least, that was what he told himself. He knew Claire wouldn’t mind if he had a ring or not- but Hershel refused to admit that he was still afraid.)

(Perhaps once he’d managed to avenge her, he’d finally feel worthy of having her.)

Another fruitless search around the flat over again (Had he even left it at home, then? Everything about that day was a blur), the man finally gave up, settling back on the bed and taking his cup of- now cold- tea.

The jostling of the mattress seemed to perturb Claire, and soon she was propping herself up on her elbows, sleepily taking in her surroundings. She noticed Hershel sitting up on the bed next to her and blinked. “Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning.” He cupped her cheek and passed her spectacles over. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as ever. Did you really make me breakfast?" She grinned at the tray on the nightstand. "What a gentleman!”

Hershel blushed. “I tried.”

Claire giggled, bringing her plate to her lap and inspecting the eggs. “Well, you’re certainly improving,” she said, taking a bite. “But really, you’ve already done so much, love. I could’ve taken care of it.”

Hershel frowned, his eyes flicking over to the wheelchair at their bedside. She often forgot that her nerves had been shot. The doctors weren’t sure if she’d be able to walk again, if ever.

Claire’s face darkened, as if the sudden changes had all dawned on her once more, the giddy smile from that morning fading away. “Right,” she murmured. She suddenly clasped her hands together, the forced smile from the night before returning to her features. “So, any plans for today?”

Hershel rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I was hoping to stop by the library for some reading.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely-!”

“Er, alone, i-if that’s alright.”

Claire’s expression faltered. “And what exactly are you going to study for? All your instructional material is strewn about the flat.”

The professor cleared his throat. “Y-You know.” Goodness, he was terrible at lying to her.

Her gaze was burning. Hershel could see the cogs turning in her head. For however great his puzzle solving skills were, they were no match for Claire's powers of observation. “This doesn’t have anything to do with what Dimitri said yesterday, does it?”

Hershel swallowed, but said nothing.

“You know it’s dangerous to get involved, Hershel. Dimitri told us as much.”

“But Claire, Bill Hawks-”

“Deserves to answer for his crimes, of course,” she finished. He looked down to see tears brimming in her large brown eyes. “But I can’t let you get hurt for my sake.”

The professor nodded, though he didn’t agree, he didn’t need to add to her guilt. “Alright,” he lied. “Though I’d still enjoy a trip to the library, and I know you would, as well.”

“But of course!” Her smile began to return. “I wouldn’t stand being cooped up in here all day, Hershel!”

Claire's forced glee didn’t waver as he wheeled her through the bustling London streets that morning. Every time he'd ask if she was alright, she’d wave him off, steering away the conversation to a puzzle, or to _look at that thing down the road, how curious!_ , anything other than herself.

Hershel’s heart sank. It pained him to see her this way, and it only solidified his intent to prove her innocence. Perhaps he could discuss it with Dimitri over at dinner tonight, investigate the lab himself. Surely they’d be able to expose Hawks, together. He’d be willing to take all the risks for that.

Anything was worth it, if it meant one day he would see Claire’s real smile again.

* * *

The next few weeks were as uneventful as Claire had expected. Hershel and Dimitri had constantly hovered over her, much to her dismay. They never listened to her protests, even though she was fine, she really was, why waste their time worrying about her? She was alive, and that was more than she could say for the people in the apartments.

They lay low at the flat for the most part, Hershel only leaving to run the occasional errand and Dimitri going to clean up at the lab. Every so often someone from the media would pass by. Somehow Bill had forgotten to bribe a journalist or two. Regardless, the adults could only wave them away. All the evidence had disappeared with Hawks; there was nothing to show.

Hershel seemed to grow wearier everyday. His nightmares returned frequently now, even worse than in their earlier years of university. It worried Claire to no end. She tried to write Brenda and Clark to come visit, thinking perhaps with everyone together they may be able to get Hershel to open up, but Misthallery was quite a distance from London, and with all of Clark’s business and the couple's new baby, they couldn’t stop by for another month.

Clark always _was_ more of a family man. Claire wished she could say the same for Hershel, but he seemed to close himself off as the days went by, obsessing over “archaeological readings” and sneaking off at night when he thought Claire wouldn’t notice. (She always did.)

The least she could do now was put on a smile for him, ease his worries. She couldn’t stop Hershel from fretting over the situation, the man would put everything and everyone before himself. Claire loved that about him, fell in love with his caring, selfless demeanor, but now it was concerning her. Hershel wouldn’t let her intervene, and it frustrated her to no end, feeling so guilty and helpless, only being able to hold his hand and stay by his side.

(Then there was the explosion itself and the lives she'd taken, but Claire pushed it far, far into the back of her mind. She wouldn't dwell on that now, she couldn't fall apart when Hershel was barely holding himself together.)

The worst part, however, was Clive. He rarely left his room except to eat or solve a puzzle with Hershel. The couple didn’t pressure him into returning to school so soon if he didn't want to go, so he spent much of his time poring over notes about who-knows-what and avoiding contact with Claire. It stung, but she couldn’t blame him. It _was_ her fault, after all.

The first time they were alone in the same room was a day Claire would never forget. It was the fourth Sunday afternoon since returning from the hospital. Hershel had gone out for another trip to the laboratory. Her physical therapist had just returned home, leaving the scientist alone with the boy at the kitchen table, wordlessly going over books and tea. The power had gone out that day, leaving the kitchen as the only decently lit room in the flat. Thankfully when the lights came back on Clive didn't move from his spot, but the flat still remained dead silent.

Claire had a study on molecular theory open on her lap, though she hardly paid attention to it, going over the same paragraph a dozen times. She couldn’t help but look over to Clive. The boy refused to look up from whatever notes he was compiling for Hershel that day. She’d ask, if she could- she _really_ wanted to know what Hershel was sneaking around doing, confirm her suspicions- but she choked up every time she tried to approach the child. Would he even _want_ to reply to whatever she has to say? Claire didn’t want to find out. (She was already sure he wouldn’t.)

And suddenly all at once, everything went downhill.

The telephone suddenly rang from across the flat, cutting through the quiet tension in the air. Both people at the table looked up, locking eyes for an awkward second, before Clive returned to arranging his papers. Claire wheeled herself over to the next room, reaching over for the phone on the table.

“Claire Foley speaking.”

It was just supposed to be another quiet Sunday afternoon.

“Miss Foley? We're calling from the general hospital. You were listed as Hershel Layton’s emergency contact.”

Claire's head swam. Everything was supposed to be getting better. She was trying to make things better.

“Did something happen to Hershel?”

She barely remembered what went over the phoneline next. Something about a coma, blunt trauma, _Hershel_ , god, she needed to go _now_ but she was helpless and frozen.

“Miss Foley? We’re sending over…”

Claire didn’t catch the rest of the sentence, the phone slipping through her hands and sending the entire thing tumbling onto the carpet with a soft _crash._ Clive ran over from the kitchen then, she barely registered a hand on her shoulder, everything was spinning and going too fast and slow all at once. Someone was speaking to her- perhaps it was Clive, how funny was it that now would be the first time he'd even acknowledged her in weeks- but it didn’t matter, Hershel was hurt, Hershel got _hurt_.

“...Foley? Miss Foley! What happened!?” Clive was shaking her by the shoulders now, his eyes searching, desperate for an answer.

Claire didn’t reply. Her walls were down. There were no fake smiles to offer now, there was nothing she could say to ease the dread hanging in the air. Instead, she dropped her head into her hands, and let out a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've finally gone through the ao3+ffnet tags and found there are many similar works to this one. although, i've had this drafted for a few months now, started right after i finished UF back in may. the only things thay have changed since then are that i've finished LS and MM. 
> 
> regardless, i'm sorry for any similarities, but i'm happy that there's a handful of good content out there for layclaire, god knows we need it
> 
> i'll try not to take so long for the next update, it's just one more long chapter then an epilogue yeehaw
> 
> (when will everyone stop being so goddamn secretive!! find out on the next episode of Emotional Repression)
> 
> (i wanted to make dimitri anmore prominent character but it was hard without bringing up his jealousy as a plot point? thats something i dont want to deal with right now!! i just want him be a good Friend)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised i wouldnt take so long to update but look what i did anyway im so sorry  
> but hey this chapter is nearly twice as long as the others and kinda hard to write so i hope you can forgive me  
> unedited again
> 
> warning for a panic attack halfway though once it switches to claire's pov

Clive sat down at the kitchen table with a huff. It was bad enough that Mr. Layton left him alone in the flat with Ms. Foley, but then the weather decided to spite him, as well. All the lights had gone out, forcing the boy out of his room and next to a dim kitchen window streaked with raindrops.

Mr. Layton had gone for another trip to the laboratory that day. Clive didn't think there was any new evidence to find on his tenth trip over, but it was best not to argue with the man. His deduction skills were unmatched, after all. It made the notes in Clive's hands absolutely mind boggling.

The boy supposed he should trust the professor. After all, he hadn't much else to go on, right now. Focus on assisting him. Duplicate his notes. One bullet point, then another, next page. Receipts from the experiment, copy it down, next page, heavens, would it kill Mr. Layton to write neater? Bill Hawks’ last appearances, make additional copies of this, next page-

“Mind if I join you?”

Clive glared at intruder who cut off his train of thought. Ms. Foley was wheeling herself into the room, thick, worn-out books stacked on her lap. The boy didn't reply, shooting her a pointed look before returning to his notes.

“I'm sorry,” Ms. Foley said, quietly leafing through the dog-eared pages. “I just thought you might appreciate some company. Nobody deserves to be alone, after all.”

He didn't know how to respond to that. Clive nearly bit back with a snarky reply- “ _Aren't_ you _the reason_ I'm _alone?”_ \- but he didn't have the energy to pick a fight, not now. Besides, he needed to stay on Mr. Layton's good side, if anything was to ever get done.

The scientist tried to give him a warm smile, but it only made Clive's blood boil harder. He hated that smile, hated that it's what she wore practically all the time. How could she be so _cheerful_ , after everything that happened? After all that she'd done?

Clive shook his head and returned to his work. No use getting worked up about it now. Focus on your notes. Copy these lines, next page. Put this schedule into a table. Next page.

Did the lights come back on? Doesn't matter. He's too focused to stop now. Next page.

A clap of thunder burst through the air. Ms. Foley yelped and jostled the table. She apologized. Clive paid it no mind. Next page.

Where did Mr. Layton get all these notes about Bill Hawks’ deals with the government? It was a little unnerving. Next page.

The phone rang from the next room. Ms. Foley left to answer it. Who could be calling at this hour? Nevermind. Focus on the notes. Next page-

There was an ear-splitting scream.

Alarmed, Clive bolted out of his seat and into the next room. Ms. Foley was hunched over, shaking. He tried to ask if she was alright, but she gave no response, her face paralyzed in fear.

It might have been the first real emotion Clive's seen from her in weeks.

He picked up the phone from the floor. Thankfully it was still in one piece, though whoever was talking had hung up. Ms. Foley was unresponsive, and all of Clive's hatred dissipated, at least for the moment. It was too painful to watch.

There wasn't much he could do until a burly police officer came in moments later. He seemed to be someone Ms. Foley recognized, because the officer- Grosky, she called him- was able to calm her down enough to bring her into his car. Clive hurried along, not bothering to lock the door in their haste, and Officer Grosky sped them to the general hospital.

It felt like it was only yesterday that Clive was just here. He didn't think they would have to return so soon. The too-familiar white hallways felt daunting as the trio made their way back into Ms. Foley's old room.

Clive didn't think it was possible to see Ms. Foley cry harder than she already had been.

It was definitely Mr. Layton laying in the hospital bed, but everything about the sight was wrong. His top hat was left on a nearby table, revealing a head nearly fully wrapped in bandages. There was a breathing tube through his nose, and Clive could see various bruises littering his body. He looked limp and lifeless, a far cry from the usually bright, inquisitive man.

Ms. Foley took the professor's hand, bandages be damned, and held it tight, sobs unrelenting. Officer Grosky clapped a hand over her shoulder, looking like he didn't know what to say. He sighed, deciding to get straight to the point.

“We found him all battered up in the street. We're suspecting foul play,” Grosky said. “Looks like he's made some enemies in his field, eh?”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Ms. Foley had to remove her glasses to sob harder. “This.. is all my fault..!”

The officer furrowed his brow. “Now, Ms. Claire, you know that isn't true. They reported a gas explosion-”

“But it _is,_ ” she cried. “This wouldn't have happened if he wasn't trying to prove me innocent! If I hadn't gone through with that _stupid_ experiment and killed all those innocent people-”

Grosky tried to cut in again, but Ms. Foley was inconsolable, cries dissolving into vague babbling. The officer settled for gripping her shoulder until her breathing slowed down.

(Clive had to admit, it was hard to stay mad at a person who looked so broken.)

Eventually, Officer Grosky had to return to work, leaving the two alone with Mr. Layton. The scientist was quieter now, her eyes glazed over and breath coming in sniffles. Clive didn't know what to say. He figured it might be hard for her to see both of them in the room, so he decided to take a walk.

It would've been so much easier to stay angry, Clive thought. It's a much easier emotion to deal with than whatever he had now. Concern? Pity? Guilt? It felt like his head was splitting apart.

“You're going to end up in one of these rooms if you keep glaring that hard, kid.”

Clive turned around. He saw Mr. Allen through an open door, sitting up in a hospital bed of his own. He didn't look as injured as Mr. Layton did, but his leg was raised in a clunky looking cast. The boy walked over and sat in the chair next to him. “What happened?”

“Looks like Layton found something he wasn't supposed to,” Mr. Allen huffed. “We were so close to piecing it all together, too. Of course he ruined everything."

Clive blinked. “I thought his research was doing well.”

“And look where that landed us.” The  scientist shook his head. “That blasted tophat of his was anything but inconspicuous.”

The boy was taken aback by Mr. Allen's change in attitude. This was nothing like the soft spoken man who paid them a visit some weeks ago. Clive got up to leave, figuring he wasn't going to get any useful information, but was interrupted before he got out the door.

“Hey, Dove,” Mr. Allen called out. “I can't do anything while I'm stuck here. Do me a favor and look after Claire.”

Clive frowned. He didn't see any reason to do _that_. He didn't even know this man! Surely someone else could take care of it. But when he turned around, Mr. Allen's face had softened into a more concerned look. “Just…don’t leave her all alone, okay? That's all I ask.”

It was an odd request, but Clive didn't think he had much of a choice, anyway. He wasn't sure of what to do or where to go from here.

Ms. Foley looked almost relieved when Clive returned to the room, though her gaze soon returned to the professor in the bed. The boy retreated to a little couch  off to the side, anxiety bubbling in his chest. He couldn't take care of Ms. Foley all alone, could he? What could he even say to her, now? It'd been hours, how had no one else shown up?

(It reminded him all too much of when _he_ was the one all alone staying by his parents’ bedside, praying they'd wake up. Clive didn't like it.)

Thankfully, the next morning, two new faces burst into the room, quickly trapping the scientist in a tight hug. They didn't look related at all, but at least they seemed very close.

“Claire! Why didn't you tell us you couldn't _walk!”_ A tall, lanky man with a scruffy  beard started to tear up a little.

“None of your letters ever mentioned _this!_ ” A short woman with curly hair had Ms. Foley's hands in a tight grip. “The newspapers only reported a tiny gas explosion! If we knew you were injured, we would have come over immediately!”

“Clark… Brenda…” Ms. Foley sniffled. “I-I'm fine, really. I phoned because Hershel-”

“ _Fine?_ ” Mr. Clark gawked. “Heavens, Hershel's really rubbing off on you, isn't he? Look at yourself, you silly goose!”

“Hershel hasn't phoned recently, either,” Ms. Brenda sighed. “Really, what are we going to do with the two of you?”

Clive rubbed at his eyes. The odd couple seemed much too awake this early in the morning. Still, it was better than the awkward silence between him and Ms. Foley.

“Misthallery's just… so far, and you seemed so busy, I didn't want to bother-”

Mr. Clark shook his head. “Hershel's night terrors were enough of a bother to write to us, but you being _stuck in a wheelchair_ wasn't?”

Ms. Foley didn't reply to that. The curly haired woman clicked her tongue. “Alright then, Claire, it's time for you to get going.”

“Wh-What? Where-”

“You look like you haven't eaten or changed since you've gotten here,” the man pointed out. “I'm guessing you didn't even stop to pack any clothes before rushing over?”

The scientist looked down at her feet. “Right,” Ms. Brenda clapped her hands together. “Doland and Luke are waiting in the car. Clark can help you with your bags. I’ll stay to watch over Hershel.”

“But-”

“No buts! Off you go, the sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back.” She turned to the boy. “Clive, right? You ought to tag along. It looks like you hadn't packed a thing, either.”

Clive flushed. It wasn't his fault that the officer was hurrying them along! He only had time to put his notes away!

They made no rush to climb into the car and return home. Ms. Foley grumbled, mumbling something about getting back to the professor soon.

“Take it easy, Claire. We can trust Brenda. Here, do you want to hold little Luke?”

Clive was uncomfortable the entire ride back. Doland, their butler, drove at a snail’s pace, with a toddler in the car. Luke squirmed in Ms. Foley's arms, then stuck his tongue out at Clive. Clive made a face in return.

“I think you two would be good friends!” Mr. Clark laughed. Even Ms. Foley managed to crack a smile, though her gaze remained distant.

However, their calm atmosphere was disrupted when Doland went to unlock the front door and found it wide open.

Someone had broken in while they were gone.

The group was taken aback by the state of the flat. Everything was in a mess. Drawers were pulled out, tables were flipped over, artifacts and papers were scattered and trampled on. Ms. Foley looked ready to cry again. Her friend put an arm around her shoulders.

“It's... a good thing you weren't home, eh?” the man tried.

Clive blinked, trying to stave away his shock. Ms. Foley asked the question on everyone's minds. “Why did this happen!?” she cried.

Mr. Doland began picking up papers from the ground, surveying their contents. Something clicked in Clive's mind. Someone was here, searching through their things… through their… papers…

His feet responded before his mind could finish the thought, and in seconds he found himself in Mr. Layton's study. The desk was in shambles, everything hastily turned over or knocked to the ground. Clive rounded the room, surveying the damage. Eyes landed on the space underneath the desk, and his worst fears were confirmed.

All of Mr. Layton's notebooks have been pulled out from his safe. Upon closer inspection, Clive found most of them were missing, and those that remained had all their pages torn out.

 _“Looks like Layton found something he wasn't supposed to,”_ Mr. Allen's voice rang through his head. Dread pierced through Clive's heart. _Now_ how were they supposed to deliver justice, without evidence?

The adults entered the room soon after. Clive ran into them on his way out. They all sounded utterly lost. Right. Mr. Layton hadn't told anyone what he was up to, save for him and Mr. Allen.

Explanations could wait, he thought, running into his own room. The lock on the door was broken. It seemed whoever did this was thorough in their search.

Thankfully not thorough enough, as Clive was relieved to find his notes unharmed, wedged between a little toy chest and the wall. The intruders probably weren't as suspicious of a little boy. He stuck the notes back in place and let out a sigh.

“I suppose you don't know what happened here either, do you?” Clive jumped, turning to find Mr. Clark standing in the doorway. He walked over to the bed and sat down next to the boy. “Doland's phoned the Yard. They should be down here any minute.”

Clive mumbled some thanks, stuffing his notes back in place. He didn't know what to do with them now, without Mr. Layton to help. He supposed Ms. Foley could probably do something about this, but she'd been left in the dark for so long, not to mention their strained relationship...

His thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I completely forgot to introduce myself. The name's Clark Triton.” He patted the bed next to him, and Clive took a seat, still in a daze. “Me and Brenda knew Claire from college.”

“I don't suppose you were their old flatmates, then?”

“The very same!” Mr. Triton's eyes lit up. “This used to be me and Hersh’s room. I bet Claire's told you all about our old shenanigans, eh?”

Clive gulped. He hadn't been talking to Ms. Foley about anything at all, really. (He hadn't given her the chance.)

Mr. Triton's smile wavered. “Or not. That's alright. I was a bit of a handful, after all, heh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I should thank you, though.”

“What for?”

The man shrugged. “For keeping Claire company. We were worried when we got the call about Hershel,” he sighed. “It was quite a relief, finding you in the room with her.”

For the second time that day, Mr. Allen's words echoed through Clive's head. _“Don't leave her all alone, okay?”_ It sounded odd at the time, but after Mr. Triton's words, the boy began to suspect there was more to it.

“Ms. Foley is an adult,” Clive remarked. “I hardly think she needs a child as a minder.” The last thing he wanted was to be trusted with taking care of her. He didn't think he  was up to the task.

“I'm not suggesting you need to be her caretaker, she just...” Mr. Triton seemed to mull over his next words carefully. “I don't suppose Claire's filled you in on anything about her past? Some things never change.”

Clive tilted his head, wondering what that had to do with this. Mr. Triton spoke up again before he could say anything. “Alright, Clive, how about I give you a puzzle?”

The boy groaned loudly, and the man chuckled. “Living with Claire and Hersh does that to you. Drove me mad, those knuckleheads.” His face quickly sobered. “But humor me this one time, alright? I promise I have no sliding blocks in my pockets.”

Clive gave a small nod, and Mr. Triton clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Why do you think they took you in, back then?”

He was tempted to respond snarkily, _“Because it was their fault!”_ , but found he no longer had the heart to do it. It was harder to stay angry, now, especially after seeing the couple at their lowest. It reminded him too much of how he felt, staying at his parents’ bedside.

“I don't know,” he responded quietly.

“Would you like a hint? Free of charge.”

“Please.” When Clive looked back up, Mr. Triton was gazing out the window, a faraway look in his eyes.

“You and Claire have more in common than you think.”

Clive tilted his head. “I don't think Mr.  Layton is in any danger of dying.”

“No! Heavens no, not like that. Try again.”

“... May I have another hint?"

“Hint coins don't grow on trees!” Mr. Triton laughed. “Okay. How about this. Didn't you wonder why no relatives came over when Claire landed herself in the hospital? Or why Brenda and I were the first to come after Hershel was attacked?”

Clive took a moment to ponder this. Clive never had a significant other. So it must have been about…

“... How old was Ms. Foley? When she lost her…” He couldn't finish the sentence.

“Claire was about your age. She'd been through all sorts of homes by the time she'd made it to Gressenheller,” Mr. Triton explained. “Hershel's folks are still around, though they live in some far off little town. Stansberry, or something. He never liked bringing it up.

Those two were always so close, and so overprotective of each other… It was hard to keep them apart for very long. I figured eventually they'd take in a kid like you. Not like this, though.”

Clive's head began to pound. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from underneath him, and suddenly all his anger towards the couple was irrational.

(Maybe knew it this entire time, but he was afraid to admit it.)

(It was so much easier to stay angry.)

Clive thought back to how relieved Ms. Foley looked when she found him at the kitchen table, or when he returned to the hospital room. This entire time, she had nobody to go to but Mr. Layton. He thought she'd been smiling because she didn't care, but maybe she'd cared more than anyone.

And Mr. Layton… saved him from running after his parents in the fire. Mr. Layton had promised to bring justice for her and Clive. He confided in Clive, gave him puzzles, let him help with his notes.

The two sought out Clive and gave him a family, like they had for each other. But he'd rejected Claire's company, and now Mr. Layton was…

Mr. Triton must have noticed his tension, because he reached over and ruffled Clive's hair. The boy didn't have the energy to scowl back this time, too lost in his own thoughts.

“Buck up, kid,” Mr. Triton gave him a warm smile. “There's no way you could've known-”

“Miss Foley must hate me.”

Both of them were taken aback by Clive's comment, seemingly out of nowhere, but Clive knew it was true. She had to despise him, didn't she? He would've, in her situation.

“Now, why would you think that?”

Clive's hands began to shake. “I- I was so mad at them!” he cried. “They tried to take care of me after my parents _died_ , and all I did was ignore them!”

“Clive, Claire doesn't-”

“Of course she does! She nearly died, and knows exactly how I feel, but I still-”

“Clive.” Mr. Triton took his shoulders and firmly turned the boy to face him. Clive didn't think the man could look so serious. “Claire loves you.”

“Wh-What?”

“She's been writing to us, about Hershel, and about you. About how you're a bright, strong boy. How you've been handling everything much better than she did, at your age. And how she only wishes she could find the strength to tell you how much she cares.”

Clive could only stare back in shock. Did he really deserve this?

“... I need to talk to her.” Clive muttered.

“I think you should,” Mr. Triton agreed. “But she may have her hands full right now. Doland's been helping her pack. And speaking of, that's what I came to help you with, too.”

The boy nodded numbly. He supposed he could wait until he had time alone to speak with Ms. Foley. Mr. Triton gave his shoulder one last squeeze before standing up and walking over to Clive's dresser. Clive went back over to the toy chest and nudged it a bit.

“What’re you up to back there?” Mr. Triton questioned him. “You only need to pack clothes for your stay, you know.”

“I know. There's just something important I need to bring along.” Clive gathered his notes and set them aside, then reached his arm into the musty dark space behind the chest. He groped around until his fingers finally landed on what he was looking for: a small, velvet-lined box that was long overdue to be returned.

* * *

 

Claire stared anxiously at the clock on the wall. Clark, Brenda and Doland had promised to be back soon- the storm outside had begun brewing again, and they decided to check in to a nearby hotel, at least for Luke and the butler. Claire was offered a room as well, but politely declined, sure that Hershel was going to wake up any minute. He did the same for her, after all.

Except now it had been _two_ days since he'd been admitted here, and he still hadn't shown any signs of consciousness. Whoever had attacked him did a thorough job of it. Claire shivered. She warned him, didn't she? Not to do anything dangerous, because she was fine! She really was! But he'd still insisted on going so far, and oh, why didn't she stop him? Now that's another victim to add to her count.

 _Boom_ ! A clap of thunder burst through the air, and Claire held her hands over her ears. Loud sounds were never a problem before, but now everything was a painful reminder of that day. She shook her head, trying to dispel the feeling of the smoke in the air, the whirring of the machine surrounding her, the heat, oh _god_ the heat, the fire that was going to consume the apartments and take all those lives-

 _Boom!_ Another clap of thunder. She was shaking now. Where did Clive go? Claire vaguely remembered him heading towards the dining hall, but oh, she needed someone, anyone here to ground her, though she didn't deserve Clive's company, did she, how dare she feel guilty and seek _his_ comfort when she killed his-

 _Boom!_ She clutched at Hershel's hands, still limp and lifeless, begging him to wake up. He didn't repond. Tears ran down her face now and her lip trembled, god, she was all alone again, suddenly she was twelve herself and terrified, but this was all her fault and she deserved-

_Boom!_

The door swung open, but Claire hardly noticed, crying out Hershel's name. To her surprise, she got a response- not from Hershel, but from a boy who was now clutching her hand.

“Miss Foley?”

Claire blinked away her tears. Clive was standing next to her chair, a concerned look in his eyes. It seemed he'd brought back dinner for the both of them, and set them aside on the nearby table. She wanted to say something, but her breaths still came in gasps, and her entire body was shaking. Pathetic. How dare she feel awful now, when the boy she'd orphaned was standing right next to her-

“Miss Foley, please.” His voice was soft. It was a nice contrast to the pouring rains outside. “It's okay. I'm here, it's okay.”

The scientist wanted to protest, but Clive began rubbing circles on her back. It was soothing. Claire let herself relax into his touch, breath beginning to even out, but guilt sinking deeper into her chest.

When she could finally speak, her words only came out in whispers. “I'm sorry,” she managed.

Clive took a chair and sat next to her, his brows furrowing. “What for?”

“Th-this is all my fault.” Claire tried to pull her hand from Clive's, but the boy held on tight. “You don't… you don't need to…”

Clive scowled at her remark. “Miss Foley, you're trembling.”

The scientist glared at her hands, still shaking from the thunder. “I'm fine, really,” she replied, trying her best to give him a smile, but tears still stung at her eyes.

Clive shook his head. “The other day, you told me nobody deserves to be alone,” he said. Claire found the courage to meet his eyes then, and found that they were also brimming with tears.

After a charged moment, Clive buried his head into Claire's chest. She jumped at first, but quickly let herself melt into the touch, both their walls crumbling down.

“ _I’m_ sorry, I'm so sorry I was so mad at you-”

“It was all my fault, you had every right to be, I'm so sorry Clive, I-”

“It was an accident, I know it was, but I was s-so angry, and-”

“But I still need to take responsibility-”

“But you still tried so hard to take care of me-”

“”I thought you hated me-””

They stayed like that for a few moments, throwing broken apologies at each other, letting all their weeks of pent up emotions flood out all at once. Thunder continued to roar outside, and Clive held the woman closer, though it was hard to tell who was shaking harder.

After a few moments, Clive finally sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Claire still sniffled, though she was greatly relieved to be talking to the boy at all. She looked to the broken figure of Hershel still laying on the bed. The boy followed, too.

“... I miss my parents,” Clive whispered.

Claire pulled him close again, and he laid his head on her shoulder. “I know,” she said, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I know.”

She thought she saw Clark peep his head into the room for a moment, but he quickly slipped back out. Her racing heart began to slow down. Hershel may be unconscious, but she wasn't alone.

It was a while before either spoke up again. Clive was the one to break the silence. “... These past few weeks were a bit of a mess,” he said.

Despite everything, Claire found herself chuckling. “Yes, quite a bit.”

Another beat of silence. “Miss Foley… Do you think we could try again?”

She raised a brow in question. Clive sat up straighter.

“We… got off to a really bad start,” he continued. “I don't… I don't think my parents.. or Mister Layton.. would've wanted that. For me. For us.”

Claire's heart sank. “I’m afraid we can't change the past, Clive.”

“I know.” They both did, far too much. “But I think I'd like to have a second chance at this. A second take. If… If you'd let me.”

“Of course!” The scientist smiled, and found she didn't have to force it this time. “Of course, of course I'd.. really like that.”

The boy beamed up at her, teary eyed and all. Then, with a little “Oh!”, he ran over to his trunk and began to dig through it. He came back with a small box in his hands.

“What's this, now?” Claire took it and gave it a once-over. Why would Clive have something like this?

“To show you I'm truly sorry… I think this belongs to you. Or, rather, it belonged to Mister Layton, but he was going to give it to you, and maybe he would have if I wasn't so mad, so I kept it from both of you but I really shouldn’t have, and I figure you should have it now-”

Claire shushed his rambling with a gentle smile and opened up the box. The ring inside wasn't particularly fancy, but there was elegance in its simplicity, and a warmth that reminded her of Hershel. She quietly slipped it on.

“Thank you,” she sniffed. “I only wish he was here to see it himself…”

“He'll come back, Miss Foley.”

“How are you so sure?”

There was a long pause. “I’m not,” Clive admitted, but he rested his head back on Claire's shoulder anyway. For whose comfort, she wasn't sure. “But we're trying this again now, so he just has to.”

* * *

 

Hershel was floating. Or at least, that was the best way to describe how he was feeling, right now. He wasn't sure he was really anywhere. There were vague sounds coming from somewhere far, but it took a while for him to finally recognize them as birds chirping.

He groaned and tried to open his eyes, but everything felt absolutely awful. On his second attempt, he managed to blink into consciousness, but the white light nearly blinded his vision. Still, his curious nature got the better of him, so he forced himself to open his eyes and observe his surroundings.

There was an IV tube stuck in his arm, but not much else. Faint bruises were fading away from all over his body. Hershel frowned. That means he must be in a hospital, and was here for quite a while. This must have been how Claire had felt…

“Claire!” he tried to shout, but his mouth was so parched it came out more like a dry gasp. Where was she? Had he left her by herself, while he was unconscious? He turned his head to the side in his panic, worried about what he might find, but was surprised when he instead found a peaceful scene in front of him.

Claire was sitting in her wheelchair, warm sunlight on her face, glasses daintily slipping down her nose, like they did when she stayed up late working. She was snoring quietly, beautiful as always.

And to his surprise, Clive was sitting up on her lap, dozing on her shoulder. There was a good pile of physics books sitting on the floor next to them. Hershel's heart felt warm. They didn’t seem to be distressed at all. Hershel supposed answers could wait, if it meant enjoying this tranquility a little longer.

The peace couldn't last, though, because as soon as he decided to close his eyes again, someone had walked into the room- was that Brenda?- finding him awake and yelped, dropping a tray of breakfasts to the floor. Hershel could hear frantic shouting down the hallway.

Claire awoke with a start, but she could only manage a “Hershel-?” before nurses flooded the room, quickly escorting the visitors outside and starting a handful of dizzying tests on the man.

A gentleman was never impatient, but he did rush through the tests and the news with a huff. Yes, yes, take it easy, he was out for a month, yes, okay, when can he see Claire?

After what seemed like an eternity of tests and news and medications and whatever else Hershel didn't quite catch, Claire finally burst back into the room, pushed by Clive. He could see Clark and Brenda politely waiting by the door, clearly not wanting to ruin the moment. The professor moved to wave at them, but before he knew it, he was smothered in a tight hug.

To his surprise, Claire actually began to _sob_ into his chest, and Clive did the same. It nearly broke his heart, but a part of him was relieved to see them finally opening up, free of the stunted tension that had plagued them before. It brought him to tears as well, and soon the three dissolved into a sobbing mess.

Hershel gave Claire a long kiss on the forehead, and despite himself, gave a quick peck into Clive's hair, as well. Later, he would be embarrassed to have given in to his emotions like this, but the two by his bedside didn't seem to mind.

Despite the tears flowing down their cheeks, and the muffled cries that filled the air, the atmosphere almost felt… Relieved. Happy, even.

Eventually, Claire and Clive pulled back, settling for the seats by his bedside once more, though Claire hadn't let go of his hand. Hershel brought hers over to give it a kiss, but his hand stopped halfway when he spotted something glimmering on her finger.

The professor had a million questions racing on his mind all at once- _where did that come from how are you wearing it how is this possible_ \- but he only managed to voice one.

“You... do you… Is that a yes?”

Claire gave him a hearty laugh. It might have been the best sound he'd ever heard. “Of course it is,” she said, pressing her forehead to Hershel's. “Why wouldn't I say yes?”

The glimmer in Hershel's eyes faded, and he broke their gaze. Claire seemed to recognize that look, because she cupped his cheek, forcing him to look back at her. She answered a question he never needed to speak.

“You're more than I deserve, Hershel Layton,” she said. “And even if you drive me mad with your lack of self care-” The professor gave a nervous chuckle at that- “There is nobody I would rather spend the rest of this life with.”

Hershel felt his heart flutter, but something still nagged at the back of his mind. “I wasn't able to prove you innocent,” he said. “All I managed to do was land myself here and leave you all alone-”

“- I wasn't alone, Hershel-!”

“And I can't even remember anything about my research! The doctors told me I was assaulted only to have it all stolen, Claire! How am I supposed to make things right for you if all I did was-”

“I don't need you to make things right for me.” She cupped his cheeks firmly in her hands, fixing him with an intense look. “I don't need a savior. I know what I've done. I just need you here, safe, by my side. Okay?”

Hershel wanted to argue, but Claire leaned in and caught him in a kiss, and he thought maybe everything would just be okay, like this.

When they broke apart, Clive cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. “While _you_ might be satisfied with this stagnation, I don't think _I'd_ want to see Mister Layton's efforts go to waste.” He was waving a thick binder in the air. The professor took it and leafed through the pages, eyes widening.

“This is… You really did copy my notes!” His face lit up. “You saved everything!”

Clive gave him a wink. Hershel continued to flip through the binder, but as he recollected his research, a sinking feeling gathered in his chest.

“Claire,” he gulped. “We… I do have enough evidence. To prove this was more than just a gas explosion and get Hawks behind bars. But if I do this… I haven't found anything to prove _you_ innocent yet. You were involved in this experiment, and…”

Claire and Clive looked at each other, and the boy gave the woman's hand a squeeze as she took a deep breath. “I know, Hershel. We've had a lot of time to talk this over, and,” She gave Clive's hand a squeeze back. “It’s okay. I don't want to run from my problems anymore. We… I'm ready to try and fix things.”

Warmth bubbled in Hershel's chest as he looked at the duo sitting next to him. It seems they'd come very far in the weeks he was absent. Seeing them smiling down at him- with real, genuine smiles- leaning closer than he'd ever thought he'd see, he couldn't suppress the wide grin that spread across his face.

“I love you so much...”

Claire leaned in for another kiss then, as Clive leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. Clark and Brenda didn't seem to be able to hold themselves back from the reunion any longer, and soon they came rushing into the room as well, smothering Hershel in another crushing hug that he was sure would keep him here for another few weeks.

Even if just for that moment, Hershel felt truly alive. Maybe everything _would_ really be okay, like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's pretty much the end of this story! plotwise, anyway. i still have an epilogue to finish up and art to come with it, so sit tight for that
> 
> i really hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed working on it! thanks! for! reading!!
> 
> (also sorry my dashes are weird. i wrote this entire thing on my phone and the formatting is bad, just pretend it isnt)
> 
> (side notes, because i like talking but you can ignore them  
> -god i love claire foley  
> -i have no idea how british people talk. im asian. im really sorry if the voices are off  
> -i dont know why clive is the easiest for me to write and i ended up writing more of his pov than anyone else. honestly i gave claire the most thought when planning this but alas  
> -i know i said i didnt want dimitri to be a jealous ass but is there..really much else to his character level 5 WORK with me please  
> -most of claire and clive's personalities are taken from the. very few cutscenes of them unfortunately. or at least claire's. i think claire was falling apart but trying to keep herself together by the last scene of unwound future, when she started tearing up while telling hershel to be strong. so that's what i tried to play with here. not sure if it worked, but it was fun  
> -i had another scene planned where clive returns to the clock shop, between his chat with clark and when he approaches claire later that night. he was supposed to talk about time and stuff with clock metaphors with spring and cogg. it didn't fit, though.  
> -this entire thing was meant to be longer with more emphasis on clive and claires awkward tension at home but thats a bore to write and probably tedious to read?  
> -i still haven't played azran legacy so clark and brenda are probably very ooc and im so sorry  
> -god i love claire foley?  
> -layclaire deserved to live god DAMN it  
> -im really not much of a writer, and i never had much confidence in posting, so thank you for every kudos and review, from the bottom of my heart!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor AL spoilers throughout. takes place right before CV.

Hershel awoke to harsh sunlight hitting his face. That was odd. He usually rose much earlier than the sun. Perhaps he had attempted to pull another all-nighter? The soreness in his limbs seemed to agree. Well, if Claire hadn't woken him up yet, then that meant it was the weekend, so he could afford to sleep in a little longer. The professor settled back under the covers, lifting the sheets to shield his eyes from the light, too stubborn to even rise and shut the curtains. His hand reached over to find Claire's as he drifted back into slumber. Except-

The man bolted upright, hit with a rush of consciousness. Claire was nowhere in the space beside him, bed unmade and spectacles missing from the nightstand. Alarmed, Hershel threw the covers aside, grabbed his tophat and ran out of their room. He wasn't used to waking up without her by his side. The smell of smoke wafted through the air, heightening his anxiety. He ascended down the stairs as quickly as he could- a gentleman would never slide down the rails- and followed the fumes into the kitchen.

“Claire!” he yelled, prepared for the worst, but he was greeted by a pair of arms circling around his waist.

“Hershel!” The man looked down to see Claire beaming up at him, a faintly surprised look on her face. “What are you doing up? You should be resting after last night! And why the yelling?” She leaned away and grabbed her crutches, taking a shaky step back to give him a once-over. He must have looked ridiculous, panting while still in his pajamas with a top hat on. Claire snorted, nearly falling over in her mirth. She still wasn't used to standing for very long.

Hershel held her arm to support her balance. “Well, I saw you weren't in bed, and then there was smoke in the air…” He looked over to see a young boy snuffing out a little fire on the stove with a dishrag. His small blue cap nearly slid off his head with the effort, but the flame was subdued quickly.

“Good morning, professor!” the boy greeted. “Nothing to worry about here, just had a little problem with the hotcakes!”

“Good morning, Luke.” Hershel turned to Claire, his racing heart beginning to settle. “Love, you didn't have to do this. It's my turn to make breakfast today.”

“I know, but you had a long week at the university, and you just looked so peaceful sleeping this morning!” she chirped. “We managed to do pretty well for most of it anyway, didn't we, Lukey?”

“The professor's right, professor!” Luke happily brought out plates of only slightly-charred hotcakes. “And now that you're up, we can finally eat together!”

Hershel chuckled. “You don't have to call us _both_ professor, my boy,” he pointed out. “It gets rather confusing.”

“And we don't know if my job at the university's been approved yet,” Claire added. “I don't know if they would accept me right now. I _did_ only just finish my community service, after all.”

“Now love,” Hershel was quick to cut in. “You've done more than enough to make up for the time machine incident. Dean Delmona would understand.”

“Yeagh!” Luke chimed in, his mouth filled with food. “And youfd make an amafing teaffur! Remembffr when we made ffhat toy flane last week?”

“Swallow your food before you speak, Lukey.”

The boy took a quick swig of milk. “See, you even chide me like my teachers do.” Claire couldn't help but laugh at that comment.

“Well, I don't doubt that I'd enjoy it. I can't stand working in laboratories any longer, anyway.”

There was a pause. Luke excused himself to fetch the post then, as he never knew how to approach the topic. Claire gave him an appreciative smile as Hershel reached over and took her hand. His fingers brushed over the gold wedding band, still as beautiful as the day he'd put it on her. Perhaps her guilt would never fade away, but she'd been dealing with it better, over time. The professor was just glad to have been there through it all.

“I've been thinking,” Hershel started, attempting to change the subject, poking at his meal.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been reading about a great treasure hidden in a village called St. Mystere.”

Claire's eyes glimmered, knowing what Hershel was getting at. She hadn't accompanied him on any adventures since Monte D'Or- and, according to Hershel, that was for the best, he didn’t want her involved with the Azran- she'd been waiting to solve mysteries together again soon. “Oh, what do you think it is?”

“The articles call it The Golden Apple. Apparently, it's worth a fortune.”

“And you think there's more to it than that, of course.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Shall I phone the University and let them know you'll be away again?”

“You make it sound like that's a common occurrence.”

“Is it not?”

“Hmmh.” Hershel had no counter to that. Claire chuckled, rising to put their plates away.

“And does the great Professor Layton need his lovely wife to keep him out of  trouble again?”

“If she'd like to.”

“I'd love to.” Hershel looked up to see Claire smiling at him. He knew that look- it was her 'I'm about to tell you how I love seeing you happy’ look, he knew it all too well. He also knew it made him more flustered than he'd care to be, so when Claire opened her mouth to speak, he leaned over and caught her lips in a kiss. His wife grunted at being cut off (a gentleman should never interrupt a lady, after all), but Hershel could feel her smiling as she kissed him back.

“Oh, gross, professors!” The couple quickly broke apart as Luke walked back into the room, a bundle of mail in his arms. "Right in the middle of the kitchen, of all places!" Hershel felt his face glow red, but Claire just laughed it off.

“So what do you have for us today, mister apprentice?” His wife sat back down next to him.

“That's mister _number_ _one_ apprentice!” Luke corrected, spreading out the letters on the table. “And oh, nothing particularly interesting. Far too much junk.”

“Is there anything from Emmy?” The professor piped up. His apprentice solemnly shook his head, and a beat of silence settled over the table. The trio missed the girl dearly.

Claire tried to sober up and put on a smile, clapping her hand over Luke's shoulder. “Cheer up, lads,” she said. “She'll come around one day. Nobody truly leaves you, after all.” Hershel knew that last bit was directed at him, and gave her a little nod.

Luke gave Claire a smile in return, then turned back to sorting the letters. “There _is_ a new name here, though. Do you know a Clive Dove, professors?”

The mood in the room instantly lifted, and Hershel reached for the envelope. Indeed, it was Clive's handwriting, sent all the way from his university overseas.

“Clive's written?” A huge grin spread across Claire's face, and Hershel nodded, unable to suppress a large smile himself.

“Who's Clive?”

“A boy we used to raise, sometime ago. You’ve actually met him before, though I suppose you were too young to remember. He'd always been incredibly bright, so he took his grandmother's inheritance and left to study in America. At an incredibly young age, too.”

“You had a son?” Luke seemed shocked.

Claire winced. “Not… exactly.”

“Well, he might as well have been yours. He _is_ taking up a double degree in temporal physics _and_ mechanical engineering.”

“ _For a better future_ , he always claimed. Although I do worry about that. He seems more interested in giant robots than anything.”

Luke tapped his chin. “Are you _sure_ you aren't related? Giant robots seems pretty inherited from Mr. Sycamore, professor.”

Claire laughed again, and Hershel rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment in favor of opening the letter. A small photo slipped out from the bottom. Luke took it in his hands, curious, then waited for the professor to read the letter aloud.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Layton,”

His wife couldn't help but giggle once more. Clive never did get around to calling them his parents, but neither really minded.

“I'm nearly finished with my studies here, so I should be able to visit very soon. And it's about time, as well- it isn't nearly as interesting as the years I had spent with you. You should come to tell my professors off sometime, these haughty old folks could never equal to either of you. Although, I have to say, the lack of puzzles in my syllabi had been very refreshing.

I heard that Mrs. Layton is close to securing a teaching job as well. I have no doubts that she would do well, as her first ever student, I can say she is more than qualified for the position. If not, I'll have to come down and teach old Gressenheller a thing or two. Your lessons in mechanics had been _very_ helpful, after all.

Speaking of teaching people a lesson, old Grosky had informed me that Bill Hawks recently got out on parole. Give him a whopping or two from me, next time you see him.

I had never been a particularly huge fan of written correspondence, so I shall tell you about the rest of my studies here in America once we meet again. (I have a lot to say about the atrocities they've tried to pass off as tea). However, your old friend Clark Triton had sent me a puzzle recently, and I feel it only fair to pass on the finished piece to you. It appears that he'd been a bit of a shutterbug during the time we'd spent together. (I would have appreciated the gesture more if he hadn't gone and botched it, first. Really, what is with the lot of you and puzzles?)

I suppose the photograph had reminded me that some display of gratitude is in order. Seeing this had reminded me that you both really did save me during a dark time in my life. Where I am now and where I am going from here, I can attribute to the unconditional kindness you have shown me, even as a stubborn child. So it is with the upmost sincerity that I say,

Thank you.

Until we meet again, professors.

-Clive Dove (Layton).”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> perhaps, one day, i'll be better at writing and rewrite this entire thing to be less bad.
> 
> that day is not today, so for now, here's to my first completed longfic!
> 
> thank you for reading !
> 
> (the art is mine but if you recognize it please make no comments to my other social media, i'm incredibly shy about my writing!!!
> 
> [you can see it in fullview without the tears here](https://66.media.tumblr.com/feb38b2b8b4a9d86ad5399c0f62940d8/tumblr_pgygqcwf4Y1qixl5ro1_1280.png))

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me at crouton.net](http://crouton.net)


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